


Grilled Cheese (and Other Magic)

by Trish47



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s04e22-s04e23 Operation Mongoose, captain crossbow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 18:00:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3987529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trish47/pseuds/Trish47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sooner or later, Storybrooke's weariest soul will straggle through her entryway, just as he has every night since the Savior's sacrifice." </p>
<p>A scene between Granny and Killian set about a week after the end of Operation Mongoose. </p>
<p>Wisps of CS. Oneshot. Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grilled Cheese (and Other Magic)

**Author's Note:**

> There are a lot of angsty post-finale Killian fics out there (and I'm loving them all). Here's my attempt to put a different, slightly lighter(?) spin on the aftermath of Emma's abduction. Because I like the idea of Granny watching out for Killian. Obviously, spoilers for Operation Mongoose. Enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own OUAT or its characters and am not making any money from writing about them.

Her door remains unlocked long after the boozy crowd has stumbled to other venues and the waitstaff have gone home. Granny Lucas has one more meal to serve. Sooner or later, Storybrooke's weariest soul will straggle through her entryway, just as he has every night since the Savior's sacrifice.

With the blinds shut and the lights dimmed, she's able to close out the cash register in the semi-quietude of whirring dishwashers and humming refrigeration units while she waits.

A few minutes pass before the bell chimes. She doesn't look up from her total sheet.

"Cutting it close."

His nightly visits have pushed later and later into the wee hours as the week has dragged on, but she won't turn him away. When all other doors have been bolted shut - when parents and partners have kissed their children goodnight and convinced themselves that tomorrow will bring answers - she keeps hers open. Because she knows his ship feels more confining than comforting. Because she knows Killian Jones needs to see a face that's not filled with pity or understanding for thirty minutes. Because she knows a warm meal is a type of magic.

As he lowers himself onto a barstool, his tired eyes catch sight of her cash bag. He peers over either shoulder, genuinely shocked to realize he's the only patron.

"Apologies," he mutters as he starts to stand again. "It wasn't my intention to trouble you."

She rolls her eyes, stashing the cash bag beneath the counter. "Sit down."

"I. . ."

"Park your caboose," she instructs more firmly.

As he complies, she grabs the prepared plate from under the warmer, then slides the sandwich and onion rings in front of him.

One corner of his mouth tweaks. "I'm much obliged."

"Bread's probably soggy," she replies matter-of-factly. "Thank your lucky stars I didn't toss it out and go to bed like any other proprietor would."

A shadow of his usual cheekiness slips past the exhaustion in his voice: "I think you've acquired a soft spot for me."

The food's magic is already taking effect. Still, she can't have him thinking he's getting special treatment, so she harrumphs and tells him, "I've got a soft spot for you like rot on an orange."

He grumbles something incomprehensible into his sandwich. She ignores him and busies herself with wiping down the counters again as the coffee pot percolates. In a periphery glance, she notices how he pauses halfway through his meal. Whether he's aware of it or not, he's done the same thing each night. The look in his eyes - a glaze of bittersweet remembrance - tugs at heartstrings she'd rather not have plucked.

The look is all too familiar. Many, many years ago, she'd had someone special too. Together, they'd shared moments similar to the ones the lonely pirate recalls as he contemplates his sandwich: splitting a grilled cheese, sitting side by side in a corner booth, or exchanging flirtatious glances over the lids of coffee cups. In her lifetime, the details varied - a leg of mutton, a log along a riverbank, and mugs of ale in place of coffee - but she understands the quiet moments of love in bloom.

And, even all these years later, she can remember how it felt when those moments were ripped away. Yes, she knows the source of pain behind his gaze.

The difference is that Emma Swan still lives, Dark One or no. There is hope for a happy ending. The whole town has banded together under the Charmings to help them find their missing daughter, though none of them search as desperately as the man eating his final onion ring.

"Any news?" she asks, peering at him over her glasses.

"Henry remains attached to the belief Emma will seek Merlin," he explains. "I'm inclined to trust the lad's instincts."

Word had spread about the Apprentice's deathbed revelations. It seemed like a logical conclusion that the Savior would search for a way to destroy the Dark Curse once and for all. It was passage into Camelot which was proving difficult. Just this afternoon, Belle had told her about legends of powerful cloaking magic that kept the realm well hidden and impenetrable by outsiders.

"Well," she prefaces her change of subject, "you'd better start taking care of yourself. You look worse than Ruby on Sunday mornings."

"Aye," he agrees, rubbing the stiffness from his neck. "Sleep has been, shall we say, elusive."

Turning away, she prepares his coffee in a ceramic cup. "Caffeine isn't going to help."

"I need to return to the library."

He takes the cup she offers, curling its heat into his hand. For several seconds, he stares at the dark liquid as though it might hold the answers he seeks. Then, with a grimace, he downs the hot coffee.

His frown travels to his brow, which furrows in discomfort as he sets the cup on the counter. An unnatural drowsiness presses on his shoulders, forcing his torso to lean forward. The pirate shakes his head, as though he can rid himself of the sudden exhaustion.

"What have you done?" The accusation in his voice is thwarted by a massive yawn.

She watches with crossed arms, begrudgingly admitting that Mayor Mills' potion works even quicker than her sandwich. "If you think Emma Swan is the only person in this town who gives a rat's patootie about your sorry hide, think again."

From beneath the counter, she pulls out a small pillow and an afghan she knitted for for one of the guest rooms. Walking around to stand beside his barstool, she places the pillow on the bar and drapes the afghan over his shoulders. This man is nearly five times her age, but in this moment all she sees is a lost boy who hasn't had a mother tuck a blanket under his chin in far too long.

"You do have a soft spot for me."

Instead of arguing, she guides his head to the pillow more roughly than necessary, making sure he can breathe. "Don't drool on my counter."

Finally, he gives up the fight and his eyelids droop closed.

She shuffles over to the front door, locking it and switching off the neon OPEN sign. She tapes a scribbled notice to the glass panel, letting her morning customers know that she won't be serving breakfast as usual. Both she and the pirate need some uninterrupted sleep if they mean to keep on going.

As she crosses the dining area to the hallway leading to her private rooms, he pushes out one final mumble: "I have to find her."

Maybe it's a prayer not meant for her ears - an appeal to a higher power to lead him down the right path to Camelot, a wish to be reunited with the Savior. Maybe he's not even aware of what he's said in his barely conscious state.

For whatever worth it might be to him, she concludes, "You will."


End file.
